I held the diving block, feeling its weight, and tried to imagine treading water using only my legs. It was the first day of the competitive swim class I took in middle school. The final skills test would involve retrieving the diving block—a large, 10-pound brick covered in thick blue rubber—from the deep end of the pool, bringing it to the surface, then treading water for two minutes while holding the block out of the water.

Not only would I have to tread water without using my arms—something I had never done before—I would be holding the extra weight of the heavy block. It sounded like a feat for swimmers who were better and stronger than me. I couldn’t imagine myself as one of them.

//

My son was born in August 2020—a true COVID baby. It took 26 hours, pitocin, an epidural, two hours of pushing, and a vacuum assist to bring him into my arms. He was perfect. But the long, challenging labor led to a rash, a painful tear, and an infection in my stitches. My jaundiced—but otherwise healthy—baby boy was reluctant to nurse.

After three weeks and a round of antibiotics, I was physically healing and finding a bit of a rhythm as a mother. A wonderful lactation consultant gave me both a nipple shield and hope that my baby and I could overcome our feeding challenges. I was finally keeping my head above water.

It was a Friday. My son and I completed our familiar, if laborious, feeding routine of first “practicing” nursing with the nipple shield, then supplementing with a bottle to make sure he took in a full feeding, followed by pumping to collect milk for his next bottle and to increase my supply. He rested happily in the Pack n Play, his belly full of breast milk and formula, while I washed the bottle and pump parts to get ready for the next feeding.

The garage door opened and my husband came inside, carrying paperwork from the urologist’s office. He slapped the stack of papers down firmly on the kitchen table.

“The doctor says it’s cancer,” he said. His tone was tense but matter-of-fact. “I should get a call this afternoon to be scheduled for surgery.”

I felt as if I’d been smacked by a wall of ice-cold water. My breath trembled in my lungs. When he left for his appointment it hadn’t occurred to me that I should prepare for a cancer diagnosis. It didn’t seem possible that something as catastrophic as cancer could be diagnosed from a single urologist appointment. I had expected tests, another round of antibiotics, more investigation.

“For a biopsy?” I asked, because surely that was the next step to prove the lump was benign.

My husband shook his head. “To remove it,” he said.

“The lump?”

“The whole testicle.”

//

On Monday, the last day of August, we left the house while it was still dark, dropped our newborn off with my mom, and drove to the hospital for a 6:00 am check-in. My husband was called back first to be prepped for surgery, and later I was allowed to join him briefly. A nurse handed me a bag of his personal belongings for safekeeping. Those were the days of strict COVID-19 precautions, so I wasn’t allowed to stay in the waiting room during the procedure. I would have to leave the building and wait for a phone call when my husband was ready to go home.

The nurses wheeled my husband’s cot down the hall. I followed, putting on the bravest face I could, fighting against the burning in my throat, afraid he could see how hard I was trying not to cry when it was my job to support him. We reached the end of the hallway and the nurses turned right.

I turned left.

Outside, I sat in the driver’s seat of my red Corolla, watching the sun rise over the hospital parking lot. The car radio played songs from the local Christian radio station, and my breast pump sat in the passenger seat next to a cooler of ice. I was alone in the car with only the music and the rhythmic sound of the pump to keep away the silence that threatened to drown me. Thankfully I had found an empty section of the parking lot for my clumsy attempt at pumping on the go.

No one would see my exposed nipples. No one would see the flood of tears falling over my face.

What was coming next? Will there be chemo or radiation treatments? After all this, will we be able to have another baby? Will my son ever figure out nursing or will I have to feed him bottles forever? Will I ever get to have the experience of nursing my baby? And what if the cancer spreads? Do I have to consider the possibility of losing my husband and raising a child who will never know his father?

I felt like I was thrust into playing the part of “cancer patient’s wife” without any time to learn my lines. This was a role for other women—stronger, better women who could bear the weight of trials with grace. I couldn’t do this. I desperately, desperately didn’t want to do this.

The surgeon called to tell me the surgery was over and everything went well. The tumor was small, he said, and our next steps would be a CT scan, chest x-ray, and a follow-up appointment to determine if the cancer had spread and whether further treatment was needed.

I thanked the surgeon. I sent text messages to my parents and in-laws to let them know the procedure had gone well. My mom replied with a picture of my baby boy snuggled happily on her chest. I was happy to see him content and cozy, but I missed his warm little body cuddled up under my chin. I was eager to get home to him. I was eager for this day to be over.

//

I thought I knew how to tread water before I took the competitive swim class. Kick with my legs. Paddle with my arms. Keep my head above the surface.

During class, our swim instructor taught us to use the frog kick, a piece of the breaststroke we had already learned, when treading water. Our goal was to make strong, deliberate motions, and the frog kick was the most efficient use of energy. My classmates and I practiced treading water this way, swimming the breaststroke in place and making “S” motions with our arms. Then we practiced again using only our legs. It got easier.

The day of the swimming skills test finally arrived. I dove into the blue-green, chlorinated water and swam all the way down, scanning the floor of the pool for the diving block. It didn’t take long to find it. I picked it up and pushed off, launching myself up and swimming until my head was above the surface.

I lifted the brick.

//

One month after the surgery, my husband and I met with the oncologist for the first time. I felt small and out of place when I walked into the cancer institute. The building was new, only two years old, and looked more like a fancy hotel than a medical building. The waiting area had a coffee bar and felt like a VIP lounge. My husband and I sat together on a brown couch next to a window while we waited to be called back.

The baby was with Grandma again so I could join my husband for this appointment. By now our son was seven weeks old and nursing like a pro. Nipple shields were a thing of the past. Instead of setting him down in the Pack n Play after a feeding because I needed to pump, I could snuggle him on my lap while he was happy, sleepy, and full of my milk.

A few minutes later we sat together in a little white room and met the oncologist. He wore a mask, like we all did in those days, and he held out his ID badge to show us his picture. “This is what I look like,” he said. We saw the smile in his eyes as he tried to help us relax.

He explained that while there was a chance my husband’s cancer had started to spread, the scans showed no evidence of cancer anywhere else in his body. There was a low (but nonzero) chance of recurrence, and the doctor recommended routine scans and monitoring rather than chemotherapy.

My husband and I walked out of the oncologist’s office, out of the cancer institute, and felt our tension and the worry fade away like the tide going out to sea.

//

My legs kicked in the familiar pattern, treading water, keeping me afloat while I held the diving block above my head. I concentrated on my movements, one kick at a time, deliberate and strong. The swim instructor called out from the pool deck when two minutes were up. I released the brick back into the water. My breaths came hard and fast, and my body tingled with exertion as I climbed out of the water. I realized I had done it.

I had done the impossible thing meant for strong, skillful swimmers.

//

Every August my son is another year taller and my husband is another year cancer-free. August reminds me of that early morning under a hospital sunrise, of treading water to keep myself and my brand new family afloat, and of the brick I suddenly had to carry when I was already giving it my all to survive.

I’m thankful for clear scans. I’m thankful we were able to conceive again—a year and a half after my husband’s surgery—and welcome a daughter. I’m thankful for the strength I didn’t think I had.